It rained the whole day. The tiles on the roof rattled. The wind blew inside through the grooves, the jambs. Kerchered women passed by the road. Stones dried splashing about. Sun passed a circle through the clouds. Weak and trembling. Three cars passed. “Two are special, they don’t count. The last one is mine,” said Şükrüye, “counts!” She bespawled her elbows that were leaning onto the windows.

“Your father will be back soon.” Her mother was seated on the couch, with her legs below. She was examining her face in the mirror in her hand.

“Your father will be back soon.” Şükrüye thought whether her mother was beautiful or ugly. She had asked her father; “She’s beautiful,” he’d said. Her mother squeezed the pimple on her chin and then cleaned her hand on the apron. Şükrüye turned to the window without having concluded.

“My father will be back soon.” The weather was clear now; the men who passed the street looked outworn from the rain. Their cuffs were covered in mud. “We go to the cinema each Sunday, and sometimes to Granny’s.” She quieted down so that her mother wouldn’t hear her. She repeated herself –sometimes to granny’s– so that her mother wouldn’t hear her again. Then turned and looked. Her mother was tying up the bun in her head with pins, then piercing it. Şükrüye had a tooth edge. She never had anything to talk about when she was with her mother. When they were alone, they were always silent. “Your father will be back soon.” Şükrüye was tired of it, so she poured water from the jug on the table into her glass and drank it just for the hell of it.

— Will you come with us too?

— No, I have things to do, said her mother, then I’ll go to Mr. Raşit’s place.

So, we’re going to Granny’s. Şükrüye felt like she was on the verge of tears. She counted how many times she had cried up until now. It was fourteen. She decided not to utter a word until the twentieth. Men with umbrellas, pitch-black umbrellas passed by. They couldn’t make it to the rain.

The doorbell rang. Her father came in.

— You forgot to oil it again, said her mother. What’s new?

— Sorry, I was late. Come, Şükrüye, Nazan, let’s go to the cinema.

— I can’t go, said her mother. I’m occupied. Can’t you just stay at home? You’ll cause the kid to catch a cold.

Şükrüye counted how many times she had caught a cold; it was nine.

When they got out the door, she held her father’s hand, apart from the one or two times she had to scratch her nose, she never let go of it. When one said “granny”, she would first think of granny’s house, then her face. Granny was beautiful. She would separate her hair in the middle, then smoothen it with l. There was always a pack with two keys hanging from her collar.

Şükrüye found a line to walk on the wet stones of the road. She was the best at finding the most comfortable line to walk on any street. She couldn’t cite poetry. “I can recite up to H, then I can’t,” she thought. Her granny would make her recite up to H when guests were around. Şükrüye would be embarrassed. “How well she recites the alphabet!” the guests could exclaim.

Granny had cups with green flowers. Her father would get up when he was taking it. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. Next week Nazan will come too,” he would say. Yet all three of them knew that she wouldn’t.

Mother would catch a cold if she came, right? Şükrüye looked at her father. She loved her mother but loved her father even more. Her father’s hand was rough, his nails were saffrony. He was taller than Filiz’s father. What an annoying girl! She would write her course notes twice and transcribe them once: thrice. But her father obviously wouldn’t live too long. His hair was getting thin on top.

— Would you like some simit?

— No.

Her mother would be angry if she didn’t eat dinner in the evening. Apparently, what she ate in between didn’t count. Granny would bring a big plate of white dessert: çevirme. And a glass of water. Cups and glasses would smell of green dish soap. Her father would have his coffee with a little bit of sugar. He would pour some on her plate so that Şükrüye could drink as well. Granny would constantly come in and out of the kitchen. “Their house is smaller than ours,” thought Şükrüye, “because the kitchen is looking towards the vestibule.” There was another door that was looking towards the vestibule but Şükrüye had never opened that one. Three months ago, her father had changed the lamps in that room. “Why shouldn’t I have done it, Mom? It’s my job.” When he was taking out his screwdriver and his test light out of his pocket, Şükrüye was swelling with pride.

When they were in front of the grocer, her father would stop, “You’ll tell your mother that we’ve been to the movies.” he would say. “She’s afraid that you’ll catch a cold in your granny’s place.” Şükrüye would listen to what her father said disbelievingly, pleased to have shared a secret with him. When they sat for dinner, she would hold his hand under the table. “The movie was nice,” she would say to her mother, “Three people died. I cried so hard.” She would find plausible details just to make her father laugh. “The Mickey in the beginning was coloured,” she would say. Then, her father would laugh as if she had counted to H. His eyes were close to one another, and his brows were united by a thick line, but when he laughed, one couldn’t see anything but his teeth.

When they were close to the door, Şükrüye started to skip. Even if she ran all the way there, she would want to delay, extend the road when she reached the last seven meters, and start bouncing with one foot. Perhaps it was because she was ashamed of being so happy.

They waited a while at the door. “Welcome, my boy,” said granny from within. “I’m coming.” When they entered through the door, “Don’t forget to take off your shoes, dolly,” she said. Behind the vestibule, Şükrüye looked at her father to her heart’s content.

— Your father is ill, he’s lying down.

Her granny’s voice was like a water source at the entrance. She looked younger. There were flowers in all corners of the room. Baskets of flowers. Lilies, freesias, gillyflowers, roses, pansies…

— Pick out a carnation, Şükrüye, said granny.

There was a pink rose tucked behind her ear. Her face was pink too. Şükrüye tried to make a connection between her grandfather’s illness and the flowers. Her father’s face was reddened. Şükrüye thought that she had never seen her grandfather before. When they opened the door, all the flowers' scent filled the room all at once.

There was no one inside. Granny had a black scarf wrapped around her shoulders. She ran to the kitchen to prepare coffee. Şükrüye blew on her coffee with her legs crossed, when the hairs above her lip stopped moving, she started to drink it. Granny said “How is Nazan?” just to break the silence. “Şükrüye, darling, why don’t you play in the other room? We’ll talk to your father. Just, don’t touch the flowers.”

— Nazan is well, she was occupied, said her father. What happened to Dad?

— He has a cold.

The other room was filled with darkness. The colours of the flowers were mixing with her granny’s quiet humming: “Kiss his hand, my boy. There shouldn’t be any resentment between a father and a son.”

The other door was magnetic to Şükrüye, even more than the flowers. Should she open it? Was her grandfather there? She pulled the doorknob with her heart racing. For a while, she couldn’t see a thing. There was simply the smell of sniffles in the room. When her eyes adapted to the dark, she saw the bed. There was a wooden table with two chairs next to it. On the wall before her, there was a picture of Granny’s youth, wearing a white dress. Her hair was braided. She was leaning on a chair. There was a man with boots, sitting there. The overwhelming feeling of seeing an ancient room came over Şükrüye. Just then, the figure on the bed sat up: “Who are you?”

Şükrüye wanted to answer, but she couldn’t. She stopped dead in her tracks. The old man reached for her.

— You should be Şükrüye. Come on then. Join me. But first, open the window so I can see your face.

Şükrüye timidly approached the window and pushed the window on tiptoes. The light that came from above illuminated the old man’s whitened hair, his dark brows that sprung downward, and his thick moustache.

— When did you arrive, Şükriye?

— Just now.

By saying this, she hoped to lessen her guilt. There was almost an accusatory fury hidden in the old man’s face. Especially in the curves of his mouth.

— Sit now, he said. Sit here.

“He doesn’t know what an old man could ask a little girl,” thought Şükrüye. She forced herself to talk.

— I’m going to start school next year. My name isn’t Şükriye, it’s Şükrüye. Are you ill?

— Yes, I am.

— Being ill is bad, my mother…

She silenced herself, thinking that the grandfather wouldn’t like it. Then:

— Are the flowers yours?

— They’re mine.

— All of them?

— All of them.

— What do you do with all these flowers?

— I sell them.

— And, what if they don’t like them?

— I’ll make them like the flowers. Why shouldn’t they like them? I put in blood, sweat and tears for them. Look: I take a big bucket each night. I pick out the decayed stems and the darkened leaves of the flowers. I cut their roots a little and rest them in the water. I water their faces frequently. They revive in the morning.

— So, you’re a flower reviver? said Şükrüye. I had run across someone like that once. I had also seen a man selling a vase; he was constantly carrying a large vase in his arms. If I had any money, I would have bought it.

The old man was touched.

— You’re a good girl, Şükrüye, he said. You take it after your father. Is he inside? It has been so long since I saw the kid.

Şükrüye was embarrassed but not angry.

The old man’s moustache was trembling.

— You’re going to be a magnificent girl Şükrüye. It seems so. You’ll adapt quickly. You know, I couldn’t sell my flowers before, I didn’t have the heart for it. I was young back then. I hadn’t taken beauty for granted yet. People get used to it in time.

— Can I identify roots and leaves as well?

— You can, said the old man, you can. Then you have to learn to part with your goods as well. Sometimes, it’ll tear your heart out, but it’ll pass. You should be composed. Ours is a tough job. It isn’t like any other. It’s not like one of those professions mentioned in the small columns of newspapers.

— Dad reads me newspapers, said Şükrüye. Before he heads to work in the morning. And you know, not everyone can do your job.

The old man was ecstatic. His chest was heaving from under his torn pyjamas.

— Just like button vending, he said breathlessly.

— Like soap-bubble-blowing! Şükrüye cried out.

— Like cramp appeasing, said the old man.

— Like vase-vending, said Şükrüye.

— An elaborate profession… said the old man. Everyone is in awe of how I make money. It’s because of the possibility of destruction of what you rely on. Like your father. How shattered I was the day that he slammed the door and left. He had made up his mind to marry the merchant’s daughter. He didn’t listen. He still hasn’t kissed my hand.

Şükrüye scratched her nose to prevent herself from crying.

— What was I saying? said the old man. I sell noble goods, but what can you do? My profession is insignificant. Noble and insignificant.

He rose in his bed. Şükrüye looked at his scrawny arms compared to his larger body.

— I’m tired now, her grandfather said. Go now, so that they won’t worry. You’re a good girl. Come by again, won't you?

— I will, said Şükrüye. I promise.

The old man laid back coughing. Şükrüye watched him until he was buried under the quilt.

On the way, she and her father didn’t utter a word. The entire time, she thought of her grandpa. When they entered the house, her mother was sitting on the couch, painting her nails.

— Mr. Raşit is going to be partners with my father, she said. This way, the problem with the funds is solved. What did you do? How was the film?

— We went to Granny’s, said Şükrüye, I really liked Grandpa.

Yağmur bütün gün yağdı. Damdaki kiremitler tıkırdadı. Rüzgâr oluklara, pervazlardan içerilere savruldu. Başları örtülü kadınlar geçti yoldan. Taşlar su sıçratarak kurudular. Bulutların arasından bir halka geçirdi güneş. Zayıf ve titrek. Üç araba geçti. “İkisi özel, sayılmaz. Sonuncusu benim,” dedi Şükrüye, “sayılır!” Pencereye dayalı dirseklerini tükürükledi.

“Baban birazdan gelir.” Annesi köşedeki sedire oturmuş, bacaklarını altına almıştı. Elindeki aynada yüzünü inceliyordu.

“Baban birazdan gelir.” Şükrüye, annesinin güzel mi çirkin mi olduğunu düşündü. Babasına sormuştu; “Güzeldir,” demişti babası. Annesi çenesindeki sivilceyi sıktı, elini önlüğüne sildi. Şükrüye bir karara varamadan pencereden yana döndü.

“Babam birazdan gelir.” Hava iyiden iyiye açmıştı şimdi; sokaktan geçen adamlar, yağmurdan sonra eskimiş görünüyorlardı. Paçaları çamur içindeydi. “Her pazar sinemaya gideriz, arada bir de babaanneye.” Annesi duymasın diye sustu. Sesini azıcık yükselterek tekrarladı –arada bir de babaanneye– annesi bir kere daha duymasın diye. Sonra dönüp baktı. Annesi başındaki topuzu firketelerle dengeliyor, deliyordu. Şükrüye’nin dişleri kamaştı. Konuşacak şey bulamazdı annesiyle kalınca. Yalnızken hep susarlardı. “Baban nerdeyse gelir.” Şükrüye bıktı, masadaki sürahiden bardağına su boşalttı, iş olsun diye içti.

— Sen de gelecek misin bizimle?

— Yok, işim var benim, dedi annesi, sonra Raşit beylere gideceğim.

Demek biz babaanneye gidiyoruz. Şükrüye küçük bir kırmızının boğazına yerleştiğini duydu. Şimdiye kadar kaç kere ağladığını saydı. On dört çıktı. Yirmiye kadar ağzını açmamaya karar verdi. Yoldan şemsiyeli adamlar geçti, kapkara şemsiyeler. Yağmura yetişememişlerdi.

Kapı açıldı. Babası girdi içeri.

— Yine unuttun yağlamayı, dedi annesi. Ne var ne yok?

— Geciktim, kusura bakma. Hadi Şükrüye, Nazan, sinemaya.

— Ben gidemem, dedi annesi. İşim var. Evde otursanız olmuyor mu yani? Çocuğu üşüteceksin.

Şükrüye kaç kere üşüttüğünü saydı; dokuz çıktı.

Kapıdan çıkınca elini tuttu babasının, bir-iki kere burnunu kaşıması dışında, yol boyunca da hiç bırakmadı. Babaanne deyince babaannenin önce evini düşünürdü, sonra yüzünü. Babaanne güzeldi. Saçlarını ortadan ayırır, limon kolonyasıyla yatıştırırdı. Yakasında iki anahtarlı bir deste asılı dururdu hep.

Şükrüye yolun ıslak taşları üstünde yürünecek bir çizgi buldu. Her sokakta yürünecek en rahat çizgiyi bulmada üstüne yoktu. Şiir söyleyemezdi. “H’ye kadar sayarım, sonra sayamam,” diye düşündü. Babaanne H’ye kadar saydırırdı ona konuklar varken. Şükrüye utanırdı. “Ne güzel de sayıyor!” diye bağırırlardı konuklar.

Babaannenin yeşil çiçekli fincanları vardı. Babası ayağa kalkardı alırken. “Zahmet ettin. Gelecek hafta Nazan da gelir,” derdi. Oysa üçü de onun gelmeyeceğini bilirlerdi.

Annem gelseydi üşütürdü, değil mi? Şükrüye babasına baktı. Annesini severdi ama babasını daha çok. Babasının eli sert, tırnakları sarıydı. Filiz’in babasından daha uzun boyluydu. Ne sinir kız! Derslerini iki kere yazıyor, bir de temize çekiyordu: üç. Ama babası çok yaşamazdı besbelli. Saçları dökülmeye başlamıştı.

— Simit ister misin?

— Yok.

Akşam yemek yemezse annesi kızardı. Arada yedikleri sayılmazmış. Babaanne koca bir tabakta beyaz bir tatlı getirirdi: çevirme. Bir bardak da su. Fincanlar, bardaklar yeşil sabun kokardı. Babası az şekerli içerdi kahvesini. Şükrüye içsin diye tabağına dökerdi biraz. Babaanne boyuna mutfağa girip çıkardı. “Evleri bizimkinden küçük,” diye düşündü Şükrüye, “çünkü mutfak taşlığa bakıyor.” Bir kapı daha vardı taşlığa bakan ama Şükrüye hiç açmamıştı o kapıyı. Üç ay önce o odanın ampulünü değiştirmişti babası. “Ne zahmeti anne. İşimiz bu.” O cebinden tornavidasıyla kontrol kalemini çıkarırken koltukları kabarmıştı Şükrüye’nin.

Bakkalın oraya gelince babası durur, “Annene sinemaya gittiğimizi söylersin,” derdi. “Babaannelerde üşütürsün diye korkuyor.” İnanmadan, babasının söylediklerini dinlerdi Şükrüye, onunla gizli bir şey paylaştığı için gönenirdi. Akşam yemeğe oturduklarında masanın altından onun elini tutardı. “Filim güzeldi,” derdi annesine, “Üç kişi öldü. Öyle ağladım ki.” Babasını güldürmek için daha inandırıcı ayrıntılar bulurdu. “Baştaki miki renkliydi,” derdi. O zaman babası H’ye kadar saymış gibi gülerdi. Gözleri birbirine yakındı, kaşları kalın bir çizgiyle birleşmişti, ama gülünce dişlerinden başka hiçbir yeri görünmezdi.

Kapıya biraz kala sekmeye başladı Şükrüye. Oraya kadar koşsa bile son yedi metreye gelince gecikmek, yolu uzatmak ister, tek ayakla sekmeye başlardı. Çok sevindiğine utandığı için mi ne?

Kapıda biraz beklediler. “Hoş geldin oğlum,” dedi babaanne içerden. “Geliyorum.” Kapıdan girdiklerinde, “Pabuçlarını çıkarmayı unutma kızım Şükrüye,” dedi. Taşlıkta Şükrüye, doya doya bir daha baktı babasına.

— Baban hasta, yatıyor.

Babaannenin sesi musluk gibi açıldı taşlığa. Gençleşmişti. Taşlığın dört yanında çiçekler duruyordu. Sepet sepet. Zambaklar, süsenler, şebboylar, güller, menekşe....

— Bir karanfil kopar Şükrüye, dedi babaanne.

Saçına pembe bir gül iliştirmişti. Yüzü de pembeydi. Dedenin hastalığıyla çiçekler arasında bir ilinti kurmaya çalıştı Şükrüye.

— Üşütmüş.

Taşlık karanlıktı. Kokulu karanlıkta çiçeklerin renkleri babaannenin ince uğultusuna karışıyordu: “Elini öpüver oğlum. Baba oğul arasında olmaz dargınlık.”

Yolda babasıyla hiç konuşmadılar. Eve girdiklerinde annesi sedire oturmuş, tırnaklarını boyuyordu.

— Raşit beyler babamla ortak oluyorlar, dedi. Sermaye meselesi çözümlendi böylece. Siz ne yaptınız? Filim nasıldı?

— Babaannelere gittik, dedi Şükrüye, dedeyi çok sevdim.